The Veil
by Nancy Brown
Summary: For one night, the wall between the worlds grows thin.


The Veil  
by Nancy Brown (nancy@tooloud.northco.net)  
Copyright 1998, 2001  
PG  
  
As usual, Buena Vista owns the toys. Certain characters, who should be   
obvious, are the creations and sole properties of The Gargoyles Saga,   
used here without permission. This little mood piece was inspired   
by the holiday, and by an interesting discussion in Astronomy class. A   
merry Samhain to all, and to all a good night.  
  
  
Light was already peeping at the horizon as she made her final   
descent to the castle, then touched down roughly on the topmost tower.   
An early rising sea-bird was startled from its perch on Goliath's  
shoulder, and went squawking off the cliff towards the safety of the  
waves. She ignored it, setting down her clumsy bundle and twisting her  
arms to relieve the crick she'd developed from carrying it so far.  
  
"Hello, my love," she whispered to his statue, placing a kiss   
on the brow as she did each time she visited this place. She sat beside   
him, brushed the ivy from his face.  
  
"I've missed you.  
  
"I know I haven't been to see you for some time, but you can't  
imagine where I've been. Across the sea, there's a new land discovered  
not long ago. I went on a ship in search of more of our kind. I found  
humans, as fearful there as they are here, but only a single gargoyle  
clan. I stayed with them for a while. You would have liked their  
leader. He reminded me very much of you."  
  
She continued to talk to him, telling him of the gargoyles in the   
New World, how they had tried to live in peace with the humans, how   
they had been slaughtered when some of the humans took ill and died, how   
she had revenged their deaths with blood. She did not weep as she  
spoke, having spent her tears on the voyage back to England, the journey  
here. She had to tell him everything that had transpired since her last  
visit, perhaps gain his understanding, at least in her own thoughts.  
  
She was still speaking when the sun rose, and trapped her with its   
blessed oblivion.  
  
***   
  
The itchy burn that preceded wakefulness skittered over her skin,   
and she flexed, casting the stone shards off her body to land in the   
courtyard below them. Six hundred years gone, and yet she turned to  
him, expecting him to rise up, shatter the stone around him, and sweep  
her into a long-delayed embrace. Instead, he kneeled as he had these  
past few centuries, staring into nothing, and her heart ached anew.  
  
She went to the bundle she had set aside the night before and   
unwrapped the burlap, revealing a silver disc the size of her hand, a  
bit of chalk she'd scavenged, a tiny silver bell, several dried stalks  
of grass tied with twine, and a smaller cloth package, pure white. She  
opened the smaller bundle, being careful not to spill any of the seeds  
within it. The fine satin slipped over her fingers like water.  
  
She inspected the chalk. There wasn't much. It would have to do.  
  
Making certain the provisions were secure, she went into the   
castle proper. Shadows leered at her as the moon flickered behind   
clouds, poking in the gaunt windows. Chilled by the night air more than   
the threat of unrestful spirits, she boldly made her way into the   
interior, into the princess-bitch's precious dining hall. Her tail   
brushed against something promising: a cup, cracked and abandoned on the   
floor. She retrieved it and went back to the tower, refusing to   
acknowledge the relief which accompanied her retreat.  
  
The courtyard was a mess. What had not been looted lay strewn by   
time and circumstance in an obscene jumble on the ground. Ignoring the   
rotted weaponry, she carefully picked the poor, broken pieces of stone   
that had once been her clan, and placed them in a loving pile at the   
center of the courtyard. There was no way to get them all, but she made   
a good pass, recognizing this wing, that face, even after all this time.   
Not one was chipped further as she placed them.  
  
The moon was high in the sky as she set the cup, filled with   
seawater, about ten paces due West of the pile. The seeds were poured   
onto the flagstones at the same distance due North. She rang the bell   
at East. At South, she had some difficulty getting the stalks of grass   
alight, but soon they crackled into quick, hot death. Sweet smoke   
curled through the courtyard, sending fingers of scent around the stones   
at the very center.  
  
As she drew the chalk circle, starting and ending at West, she   
recited the names and calling of the wards in her mind, inviting Those  
who guarded the quarters to come in whatever form They chose to watch  
over her work tonight.  
  
Late insects, attracted by the burning grass, hovered in a soft,   
whirring cloud near the South, but did not enter the chalk circle. If   
she looked carefully, she could see the glow around the circle, could   
even sense the absence of that glow at the Quarters, and knew the   
Faceless Ones were at hand, cloaked in a mystery she would never know.  
  
Before she started the next phase, she willed herself to relax.   
This spell had no guarantees from this point onward. She had seen   
something similar in the rites of the New World gargoyles, had heard   
whispers of it even in her tutelage under the Archmage. The Grimorum  
had not been seen in centuries, but other magic books she had held in  
her fingers also had touched on this spell and its like. She had  
drafted the form of it from her studies of these, and the knowledge  
she'd gained from the witch-women in the hills in exchange for their  
lives. The true test would come in the hours before daybreak.  
  
It had to be right. Tonight was the night, the old New Year   
celebrated by Oberon and his kind that had once been celebrated by the   
humans as well, the traditional night when the walls between their world   
and the next grew thin --- thin enough to cross, if one knew the way.   
Demona had been raised to believe that the darkest night of the year   
marked its closing, whatever the thoughts of the Second and Third Race  
on the matter, but she had also been taught by the Archmage that belief  
was magic, too. She could believe that the veil grew thin at this time  
of year, especially in this place of death. Had she not spent nights  
here during her long loneliness, hearing voices on the wind? And if she  
had one chance at capturing those voices, even for one night, did she  
not have to seize that chance?  
  
The shield hummed with life. The insects had been drawn to the   
glow of the chalk line, batted ineffectually against the barrier between   
outside the circle and within.  
  
She took the mirror, set it face-up atop the pile of stones. It   
reflected the moon's bright face back into the sky, but was stopped at   
the edge of the hemisphere that was the top of the shield.  
  
Demona picked up the cloth which had held the seeds, raised it   
above her head. She formed in her mind an image, a shimmery veil before   
her of vermillion and gold and ivory. Across its dancing depths, she  
saw the beloved faces of those whose bodies lay crumbled in the  
courtyard. They all watched her silently.  
  
Demona ripped the satin in two. The veil in her mind ripped  
apart.  
  
She opened her eyes.  
  
Two dozen ghostly apparitions crowded within the ring: old  
friends, rookery parents, even the poor slain hatchlings, all taking  
substance from the diffused and reflected moonlight streaming from the  
mirror. As if a moment had been stolen from their lives, they stood  
frozen in the acts of speaking, walking, loving.  
  
"Live," she breathed.  
  
The moment shivered, and the figures took life. Very dimly, she   
heard voices, as one of her rookery fathers, a kindly old blusterer,   
started regaling two hatchlings with a story. Two of her rookery   
brothers stood to one side, one a handsome fellow with little   
imagination, the other with a twisted horn and a sharp mind. Two   
hatchlings played at keep-away from a third.  
  
When one gargoyle went to bump into another, the two moved   
through each other. All avoided the barrier, although not blatantly.   
Their walks, or games, merely shifted position so as to stay away from  
it naturally. Demona sat at West, her knees huddled against her, and  
watched.  
  
"In my day ... "  
  
"I really don't see the point of all these patrols."  
  
"The Prince would like tae speak wi' ya."  
  
"Your turn in the middle!"  
  
" ... and the Dragon said, 'Fee Fi Fo Fum!'"  
  
The scene flickered. The same gargoyles were in the circle, but   
in different places. Her rookery brothers were hatchlings, oblivious to   
the other hatchlings. Her rookery parents seemed no older than gawky   
adolescents. The conversations shifted, blended into one another.  
  
"Aye, she's a bonny thing."  
  
"Would the Second mind if we joined th' party?"  
  
"I don't know what she sees in him."  
  
Another flicker, and her rookery brothers were as old as she had   
been on that terrible night. The hatchlings played a different game,   
with ghostly wooden swords and shields.  
  
And so it went, for minutes, perhaps hours, even nights. Demona   
could not guess at the time in the circle. The captured echoes of  
the spirits changed in time to an unknown heartbeat, while the moon  
seemed to stay overhead for an eternity. She searched each new face,  
finding only reflections of the old. His shattered form was not among  
the stones, and his face was not worn by the ghosts. The disappointment  
tasted familiar on her tongue. Instead, she watched her rookery  
siblings, and felt the old pain.  
  
"What did the Prince say?"  
  
"You've always been a good friend to me, but he is the one I  
love."  
  
"I wish ... "  
  
When the moon slipped from its throne in the heavens, the light  
diffused more, became less distinct. The figures faded into mere wisps  
of being, their voices growing more distant as she strained to hear  
them:  
  
"That's a good lad."  
  
"Here, you can help."  
  
"My love!" This last was directed at the male with the twisted   
horn. He looked up from his conversation to see one of her rookery   
sisters walking across the circle to him, her golden wings practically  
transparent. As the pair touched wings, they vanished into the night.   
She heard a peal as a hatchling laughed, and then all was still.  
  
Slowly, she got to her feet. Automatically, she released the   
wards, sent the Watchers off with mumbled thanks, was too numb to sense  
their passing. The shield relaxed into nothing. The insects hummed  
into the circle, but finding no light there, dispersed.  
  
She left the circle, left the stones, left the offerings and the  
wasted satin veil. The next rainfall would wash away most traces from   
the eyes of the curious, and the snow would move the stones. Taking  
only the silver disc, she climbed the topmost tower one last time.  
  
Still he had not moved.  
  
"Happy Halloween," she said to him, knowing he could not hear her  
in his long sleep, nor feel the tender brush of claw to forehead. She  
went to the edge of the tower. The sea grumbled in the thin moonlight.   
  
She drew her arm back and cast the silver disc towards its hungry  
waves. The disc flashed with light, a bright speck in the chilly  
darkness, then disappeared forever into the night.  
  
  
The End  



End file.
